


achilles heel

by Mithlomi



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Swordfighting is a metaphor, nudge nudge, wink wink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:04:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithlomi/pseuds/Mithlomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Swords?"</p><p>Because she shouldn't have expected anything else...</p>
            </blockquote>





	achilles heel

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt I recevied on Tumblr. I'm quite proud of this one...

"Again- arm up!"

Her jaw tightens, eyes narrow as she resists the urge to glare because she knows he is right. She’s asked for his help, and she wants to learn; he’s only trying to make her better and he’s not being gentle, not afraid of offending her, not flinching away from critiquing her technique. So she heeds his advice and lifts the rapier, her gaze focused and steady down the line of steel, the tip aimed at his throat.

His gaze drifts over her once more, assessing her stance, her arm, her footwork. But her foolish heart betrays her for a moment, pulse racing and it’s almost as if she can feel his eyes roam over chest, heaving in her tight corset from their previous exertions; down her waist, her heavy skirts and she shifts suddenly, as if his piercing gaze can see right through her.

But it’s then he attacks, surges forward with such precision and speed that she gasps and barely manages to block the assault, the clang of crashing steel loud in her ears as the force of the blow rings through her arms.

He’s mere inches away from her now, his side pressed against her own, and there’s a spark in his eyes and a mischievious curl to his lips; it’s the same look he wears when he knows he’s testing her patience.

She should hate it. She doesn’t.

She opens her mouth to protest at his forcefulness but he cuts her off. “You weren’t paying attention. You can hardly argue that your opponent is being unfair, can you?”

She almost pouts and he moves away with a small chuckle, and finds her brow furrowing at the sudden absence of warmth. She puts it down to the cold air in contrast to her rosy cheeks, her warm skin and not the fact that she wants him to do it again.

She clears her head, brushing the errant curls away from her eyes and looks up at him. He’s adjusting the gloves on his hand and his gaze flicks up towards her. He’s showing off; she knows he’s barely trying.

Damn him.

"Your stance is good though. And your reflexes are quick. Definitely my top student…"

"Had many, have you?"

"You’re my only one…"

He grins, and it’s slow and teasing and challenging all in one and he’s already raised his sword because he knows what she’s about to do. Furrow her brow and charge forward, striking towards his left. He parries the attack and steps back to counteract her assault. She knows this because he’s taught her well; told her to watch, to learn how her enemy works, fights, thinks.

She swings the rapier back round, heading for his right flank and his sword this there before she even knows it. He’s a brilliant swordsman, a perfect blend of natural talent and practised skill. She won’t underestimate the work, the time he has placed into his chosen profession but it’s hard to think of anything he’d be better suited for.

They keep going, neither wanting to give up. She moves and he parries; he swings and she blocks. Around and around the small courtyard that serves as their training ring. And she watches. It’s almost graceful; his arms, stong and lean, moving with seemingly little effort. His lithe body bends to block her next assault and she swears she can almost see the muscles moving under his shirt…

But his hand is suddenly on her wrist and he twists her in one quick move until her back is pressed tight against his chest.

They stop, but breathless, and despite herself, she takes a small amount of pleasure from the fact that he’s breathing just as hard as her. She can feel him now, the hard ridges of his chest moving against her. The warm skin from his open collar is warm against her bare shoulders and his arm is tight around her waist. She can feel his hot breath against her ear as he pants and he’s so close his face is buried in her wayward hair, nose nuzzling against her.

He must feel the shiver that passes through her; she’s moulded so tight against him there’s no chance he would have been mistaken. But if he does notice, he says nothing. Instead, she imagines that she hears him breathe a little harder and feels him tilt his head minutely. Just a little movement. Any more and his lips would brush ever so softly against her temple…

With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she jabs her elbow into his stomach and tears herself out of his grasp.

He groans, almost doubled over and she smiles, turning to face him with her sword raised once more. So when he recovers, finally looks up, there’s something altogether different in his gaze.

Admiration. Respect… and something else that makes another shiver trail down her spine.

He smiles once more and she raises a brow.

"Again…"


End file.
